My Friend, Hugo (Part II)

Hugo’s restaurant, LaCordonnerie, is a small family operation, and that’s the way Hugo likes it. His nephew, Jeremy, is his maître d’. His wife, Valerie, who lives with him in the flat above the store, occasionally helps out in the restaurant. They met in high school. Shortly after graduation, Valerie was severely injured in a car accident and, as a result, has long suffered from bouts of chronic depression. Hugo was there for her during her lengthy stay in the hospital, first as a friend, then as a loving partner. They have been together ever since.

One night, Hugo confessed that, despite his being pleased with our devotion to his cooking, our frequent patronage created a challenge for him. He explained that he often repeated the same specials from night to night; this was fine with customers that came once a week, but presented a problem when Richard and I dined five nights in a row.  I don’t always change the specials from night to night,” he said, “so if you don’t want cod again tonight, I’d be happy to make you a different dish.” And that’s how I came to enjoy the most exquisite fois gras au chocolat I’ve ever had—prepared just for me before my very eyes. Richard went again for the braised duck, which I think he could have had every night of the week.

                  Hugo and Valerie came to New York twice since we’ve known them. On their first visit, we picked them up at the airport and I had the audacity to invite them to our apartment for dinner. After all, what could we make to please a French chef? Richard and I decided on a classic Italian meal–spaghetti and meatballs, eggplant parmigiana, homemade Italian cheesecake, and our favorite Italian wine. To our surprise and pleasure, Hugo and Valerie gobbled it up. On their second visit, a year later, they asked us to take them where they could have an “American breakfast,” and we took them to the Metro Diner, a few blocks from our apartment, on Broadway and 100^th street. They had the works: over-easy eggs, whole wheat toast, pancakes, bacon and home fries. The next night, they took us for dinner at a steak house on the East Side. Not a French wine or tarragon sauce was on the menu; instead we had grilled steak, creamed spinach and baked potatoes, but by then I knew that they loved to eat everything. By the end of the evening, the four of us had gone beyond being proprietors and patrons. We had become friends.

                  Our last trip to Paris was in 2018. We had planned to go back in 2020, but when Covid struck, LaCordonnerie, like most restaurants in Paris, had to close. Hugo and Valerie spent that year at their country cottage in southern France, during which time we kept in touch with one another. That fall, I got an email from Hugo. “Prime Minister Macron is saying the restaurants will reopen in late January,” he wrote.” Hope to see you sometime in 2021; your table will be waiting for you.”

                  But by then Richard’s chronic arthritis was starting to get the best of him and by 2021 his legs could no longer support him. At first he needed a cane, then a walker, and finally a motorized scooter to venture no further than to the local super market and bakery just a block away. Eventually, the arthritis spread throughout his whole body until he finally became bed-ridden, unable to move without dire pain, and needed hospice care. After he passed away in July 2025, I called Hugo to let him know. “Richard made me promise to return to Paris,” I told him. “D’accord,” Hugo said. “I hope you can come back soon.” And I did.

                  Earlier this month, I flew to Paris with my daughter, Christine, my son, Tom, and his wife Sara. They had never met Hugo, but had heard much about him. We rented a three bedroom flat in the 1^starrondissement, well within walking distance of the restaurant, and went to eat at Hugo’s on our very first night. It was a joyful reunion. Now in his late 50’s, Hugo’s lush brown hair had turned white, but his warm eyes and bright smile were as welcoming as I had remembered. After exchanging kisses on both cheeks, he told me Valerie sent her love but that she now spent all her time in the country. He had a bottle of chilled French champagne awaiting us at our table, and he joined us in raising our glasses to remember Richard. As was Hugo’s way, he explained the preparation of the two specials on the menu, grilled halibut and braised chicken, showing them to us in the pans in which they’d been cooked. Two of us took the fish and two took the chicken, so we all could share. I had my favorite, fois gras, as an appetizer, Tom and Sara had mushroom-and-leek bisque, and Christine has sausage en croute. For dessert, we shared bananas flambe and pear sorbet. Plus, we went through two bottles of some of the finest white wine we’ve ever had.

                  At the end of the evening, Hugo came to our table with his calendar. “So,” he asked, “will I see you again this week?” “I’ll be here,” I said, “but my family might want to explore other restaurants.” “As well they should,” Hugo agreed. “Oh no,” Christine said, much to my surprise. “We want to come back here!” “Yes,” said Tom and Sara. “Please reserve this table for us for the rest of the week.” And so it turned out that we dined at Hugo’s four nights in a row, Tuesday through Friday. We probably would have returned to Hugo’s Saturday and Sunday, too, but the restaurant was closed on weekends. On Friday, our last night, there was another bottle of chilled champagne awaiting us, and Hugo had made his very favorite dish, braised duck. He gave us a taste…and that was it. Done to perfection—crisp, lean, and delicious—we all had it!

                  As we said our good-byes that night, I started to cry. Hugging Hugo, I said, “Je t’aime, Hugo.” Hugging me even harder, he said, “I love you, too. Please come back soon.”

`               On our way out of the restaurant, one of Hugo’s patrons, who was at the next table and saw me crying, stopped me. “I know how you feel,” she said. “My husband and I are from North Carolina and we’ve been coming here for 16 years.” “My friends think I’m crazy!” I told her. “Mine do, too,” she replied, “But we’re not crazy; we’re the lucky ones to have discovered that Hugo is a maestro in the kitchen.”

                  We flew home Monday morning. When I got home, I went to Richard’s photograph in my bedroom and thanked him for making us stop by LaCordonnerie so many years ago! “You believed in Hugo from the moment you met him,” I said, “and you were right.”

And, with that, I gave his photo a great big kiss!